In the belly of that forsaken alley, there I lay—a fragile heap of fur and bone, discarded like yesterday’s trash, abandoned and left to rot. The stench of decay clung to the air. The living mingled with the dead. Some of my siblings were already stiff with the chill of death, their tiny bodies rigid in their final repose. Others, who were less fortunate, writhed under the assault of worms and maggots, their misery prolonged by the cruel hand of fate. And there, among them, I… I was a pitiful creature, trembling on the very precipice of oblivion.

A hand reached down, gentle was its touch and plucked me from the muck as if I were some treasure buried in the mire. I was bathed in warm waters that washed away the filth of the world and the vermin that sought to devour me. Once I was cleaned, dried, and brushed, my carers would remark in awe that each strand of my fur resembled a golden thread, banded and interwoven in shades of the earth—cinnamon, tawny, and fawn—blending together, much like the undulating dunes beneath a blazing sun. 

They cradled me tenderly, holding me close in their arms or settling me in a cozy box lined with soft blankets. My empty belly was filled with the warmth of sweet milk, and with each drop, the life that had nearly escaped me was coaxed back, breath by breath.

Aboard the NOAH 1 ship, my place was not among the ranks of those who command or navigate the vast seas. No, my duty was of a gentler sort, though no less important. I was to bring solace to the weary, to comfort the brokenhearted, to be a balm for the soul in a world where such comforts were as scarce as a sailor's star in a storm. 

And so, from the filth, I was reborn—not merely to live, but to serve, to be a small, warm light in the cold darkness that so often surrounds us. They christened me–Page–a name fit for a service animal. In my simple existence, I found a purpose far greater than myself, for in the quiet company of those who suffered, I became their lifeline, their hope in a world that had forgotten the meaning of the word. 

Despite my best efforts, not everyone could be saved from the depths of their own despair. When such tragedies unfolded, they didn’t pass by like fleeting shadows of clouds; instead, they lodged deep within me, cutting through me like a sword. Failure was no small burden—it clung to me like a leaden anchor, dragging me into dark waters that threatened to engulf me for weeks on end.

Sarah Kelping from Suite 4, a mother of three children and the wife of a lost sea scavenger, approached me with a bowl of mashed tuna. 

I’d been in the sitting room, listening to the faint sounds of her tucking the children into bed. When she stepped out of their room, I couldn’t help but notice something unusual. She wore her emerald green dress, the one she’d worn the day she last saw her husband, and her hair was carefully pinned up in a bun. 

By this hour, she was usually in her nightgown, a flowing robe loosely tied around her. Her long brown hair, typically pinned up in a tight bun during the day, would be undone, cascading softly down her back. After putting the children to sleep, she’d pause to give me a little treat before retiring to her room. Was she going out? To meet a friend for a rare evening stroll?  Or would she join the birthday celebration in the ballroom, where voices and laughter echoed through the ship?  

She knelt beside me, resting her chin on her knee, a faint smile touching her lips but never reaching her tired brown eyes. I sensed her sorrow, though it was not something that could be measured by touch, smell, or sight. I felt it more keenly than I could describe—an ache, a tightening of the chest that made each breath a struggle against the invisible chains of melancholy.

The tuna’s familiar and tempting scent reached my nostrils, yet I found no joy in it. What was once a delight to my senses now felt like an impossible task. My appetite had shrunk in the face of the sorrow that permeated the room. As I nibbled at the offering, each bite a struggle, a somber realization settled over me: there was nothing more I could do to ease her pain.

No matter how many times I nuzzled my head against her hand or licked her cheek with gentle affection, even the soothing rumble of my purr—once a balm for troubled hearts—seemed powerless against the depth of her grief. 

The only solace I could offer her was to follow her, silently, to the promenade deck. A handful of figures roamed the deck, savoring the cool serenity of the night, their footsteps barely more than whispers. Meanwhile, within the warm confines of the ship, others were enjoying themselves, their laughter rising in boisterous bursts, a cheer of camaraderie mingling with the resonant clatter of pint glasses colliding in shared toasts. 

As she drew closer to the ship's rail, I took a step back, a sense of impending doom rising within me. Something was terribly wrong. Disaster was waiting just beyond the edge.

She gripped the rail, her knuckles white against the iron, and with a final, haunting smile cast in my direction, she vaulted over the edge. In an instant, she vanished into the abyss, leaving me alone in the stillness of the night. Screams mingled with the roar of the waves as a small crowd ran toward the rail where Sarah had stood moments before.